


Can't Leave You Alone

by mommymuffin



Series: Breathe Me [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Derek Takes Care Of Stiles, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Scott is a Bad Friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-23
Updated: 2013-10-24
Packaged: 2017-12-30 05:22:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1014621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mommymuffin/pseuds/mommymuffin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles tries desperately, but the air just won’t come to him. He can’t do it himself. He needs someone. Someone to help him.</p><p>And Scott left him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Not in the Night

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Slightly descriptive panic attack. Please be careful if this might affect you. 
> 
> Story is set between Seasons 2 and 3, I guess??? There is no context for it at all really. I'm just writing here, people.
> 
> I viewed this as pre-slash in my head when I was writing it, but if you wish to take is as general, feel free. You do you, man.
> 
> (Still working on Shakespeare Was a Wolf series, I swear!)

“Allison!” Scott says and he’s turning away.

Stiles feels his chest tighten painfully. He’s reminded of the time Matt Daehler stepped on him to make a point.

Scott’s almost to the door now.

Stiles’ heart is beating fast. _So_ fast. He thinks it’s trying to get out of his chest.

His chest hurts.

His heart hurts.

Doesn’t Scott hear that?

Scott is out the door and Stiles falls to his knees. He can’t breathe. _He can’t breathe._

And Scott left him.

Stiles tries desperately, but the air just won’t come to him. He can’t do it himself. He needs someone. Someone to help him.

_And Scott left him._

Stiles is sweating and his palms are slick with it. His hand slips on the cement floor of the clinic and he goes down on an elbow hard. He thinks he makes a noise, a scream, a shout, something, but he doesn’t know. He can’t hear anymore, can’t focus to see anything either.

His chest hurts.

He doesn’t know what’s happening for a second as the room is suddenly pulled upright, but he realizes a beat later that is was him that had been righted, not the room. Someone pulled him up.

_But, Scott left him._

Stiles blinks, notices he’s crying hot, salty tears, and his vision swims with them before suddenly bursting into focus with startling clarity.

“Stiles!” the person whose hands are on him says.

And it’s Derek.

It’s Derek.

Derek is there. But, Scott isn’t.

Isn’t that a laugh.

Derek is saying something to him. It seems important.

“Stiles, breathe! I need you to breath for me. In and out, in and out. _Stiles!_ ”

Stiles forces himself to look at Derek and not the door that no one is coming back through.

“Breathe with me, Stiles.”

Stiles does. It takes him a minute, but he watches Derek, watches the rise and fall of his chest, watches the motion of his hand as it sets a steady beat in the space between them for Stiles to follow.

His chest doesn’t hurt anymore.

Stiles sags and doesn’t even care, just lets the werewolf catch him when he can’t hold himself up anymore.

“Stiles,” Derek says and it’s less urgent, but more meaningful this time.

“I’m okay...” Stiles mumbles against Derek’s chest. He can hear Derek’s heartbeat under his ear. It seems a little fast to him. A little panicked.

“You weren’t,” Derek counters and he shifts them, adjusts Stiles weight against him to where they’re both more comfortable.

“Yeah...” Stiles replies.

There’s silence for a while. Stiles isn’t really sure how much time passes. His mind is blank, which is alarming for him to say the least. But, he guesses that makes sense. It’s only reflecting the way the rest of him feels right now—hollow and carved out and _empty_.

God, Derek is warm.

“Thanks...” Stiles blurts without thinking, but it’s all right, because he means it.

Derek doesn’t say anything back. Stiles knows it isn’t really his style to say you’re welcome. Or thank you for that matter. Or please. Or anything polite really.

“Why?” Stiles asks after another long moment.

Stiles can practically feel the answer to that question roiling beneath Derek’s skin. But, the man doesn’t let it out. Instead he says, “Let’s get you home.”

He pulls Stiles upright and steadies him, an arm around his middle, while the other pulls one of Stiles’ lanky limbs over his broad shoulders. They manage to make it out the door and Stiles feels nauseous for an instant when they pass through it and thinks he might be having another attack, but it abates as soon as the cool night air hits his face outside.

Derek shoves Stiles into his Camaro and Stiles almost giggles when he buckles him in like a child.

The ride is silent and Stiles wishes he could fill it, wishes he could blabber on about nothing the way he usually does, but he can’t. And it just makes him feel laid bare next to his emptiness. There’s nothing covering up the wounds and sore spots right now and Derek could glance over and take one look at Stiles and know exactly how he’s feeling, what he’s thinking.

Stiles is strangely okay with Derek being the one to see him like this. It’s not ideal. And he’d prefer if it didn’t happen at all. But, since it had to, he’s thankful it’s Derek.

Derek knows what open wounds are like; he won’t press at them.

The Sheriff isn’t home and Derek parks in front of the house, which Stiles thinks he should protest because someone might see, but he doesn’t for some reason he can’t explain to himself. Derek pulls him out of the car and walks him up to the front door. One of his hands goes into Stiles’ pocket and retrieves the keys.

Once inside Derek takes Stiles to the couch in the living room and lays him down.

“How do you feel?” he asks.

Stiles doesn’t know how to answer that.

Derek seems to get it and nods when Stiles doesn’t say anything. He takes a seat on the floor in front of the couch and leans his back against it, his shoulder near one of Stiles’ hands. The werewolf grabs the remote and flicks the TV on. He settles on _Friends_ reruns after flipping through and presses his back more firmly against the back of the couch as he relaxes—as much as Derek Hale is able to relax anyway.

Stiles stares blankly at the TV for the better part of ten minutes before asking, “Why are we watching _Friends_?”

Derek glances over his shoulder at him. “We don’t have to. We can watch something else,” he says and reaches for the remote.

“No, no,” Stiles says and his hands twitch and his shoulders jerk as his body tries to move animatedly as it usually does when Stiles talks, but it’s too exhausted to really follow through at the moment. “I mean...what are we doing? Why are you here? Why am I here? Why didn’t you just put me in my bed and leave?”

Derek answers, “Because you’re not supposed to leave someone who’s just had a panic attack.”

“Oh,” Stiles says and the word breaks on a sob. Stiles can feel the hot tears making a comeback and he knows his mouth is making that funny, awful shape it always does when he’s trying not to cry. He hiccups and his shoulders shake a little as he whispers, “He left me...”

Derek turns around to look at him more fully and he pulls down the afghan from the back of the couch and covers Stiles with it.

“I know,” he says and looks at Stiles with sad, honest eyes.

Stiles’ words are lost to sobbing then and he lets the heartbreak wash over him and drown him completely. He’s completely submerged under the waves of pain, but Derek’s hand when he reaches out for it is there like a lifesaver, keeping his body afloat and his head above water.

Derek doesn’t pull his hand away, doesn’t do much of anything else at all actually. He just sits there, a quiet, solid, warm presence and lets Stiles cry. So, Stiles cries until he falls asleep, face tear-streaked and splotchy.

In the morning Derek will tell the Sheriff that he saw Stiles on the ground in the parking lot outside the vet clinic. That he took him home. That he stayed with him out of fear he’d have another attack. He’ll tell him anything when the morning comes, but right now he knows he can’t leave Stiles alone.

He just can’t.


	2. Nor in the Morning

Derek hears the Sheriff’s cruiser pull up into the driveway just after eight the next morning. He doesn’t move; it would only look more suspicious if he did. His ears pick up the sound of the car door opening and boots scraping on the concrete and then the slam of a car door. There’s a pause in the sound of movement as, Derek imagines, the Sheriff stands there looking at Derek’s Camaro and wondering why it’s there. Then, there are footsteps and a key in a lock and a creak as the door’s pushed open. It clicks shut.

Sheriff Stilinski stops perfectly square with the doorframe and looks at both of them. Derek sits up then to return his look.

He’d been stretched out on the floor in front of the couch. He hadn’t slept very deeply or for very long, too intent on keeping vigil over Stiles. Stiles for his part had slept soundly, never once stirring. Which for someone like Stiles Derek thought was concerning. Even now the boy hadn’t been drawn by the sounds of his father coming home.

The Sheriff’s eyes pull away from his son, who by every right still looks exhausted, and land on Derek. The gaze is steady, firm, but not hard. Derek recognizes it as the same look he gave him in the interrogation room.

He says, “Should I wake him up for an explanation or can you give me one? Derek.” The man says his name in a way that makes sure Derek knows he remembers exactly what the circumstances of the last few times they’d met were.

“He had a panic attack,” Derek replies.

The Sheriff’s eyes snap back to his son and an overwhelming amount of emotion flares up in him—panic, fear, worry, love, anger. All the good marks of a father.

“He’s fine,” Derek assures him quickly, glancing back and noticing Stiles is _still_ asleep. Derek hopes he’s telling the truth. Even if the next part definitely isn’t. “I was driving past the vet clinic when I saw him go down in the parking lot right next to his Jeep. I didn’t know what was happening at first, but he managed to pull out of it, when I got him up. I brought him here and stayed because you’re not supposed to leave someone alone after that.”

“You’re right, you’re not.” The Sheriff’s eyes are on Stiles again. He looks worried. Smells worried. And something else maybe. Scared. “He hasn’t had one of those in a long time...”Stilinski adds.

Derek nods. “I don’t know why he had one last night. He didn’t talk about it.”

“It’s a rare thing for my son to not talk—except when it comes to the things he actually _needs_ to talk about.” The Sheriff’s sly gaze pins Derek again. “But, I’m sure you know that.”

He’s fishing. Seeing how well Derek knows Stiles. Trying to figure their relationship. He already knows Derek isn’t as much of a stranger as he would like to pretend.

“I know he talks a lot,” Derek says. “Hard to miss that.” He’s trying not to give too much away, but Stiles’ dad is a good cop, and he’s knows Derek is not saying something. Which is almost the same as if he had.

“Hm. Well. Guess we better wake him up.”

Derek stands and moves out of the way, so the Sheriff can shake his son’s shoulder.

“Stiles. Stiles, get up.”

Stiles hums and all his muscles seem to shift as he’s pulled back into wakefulness. He blinks open an eye.

“Dad?”

“Hey, son.”

Stiles is disoriented for about half a second more before the events of last night all come rushing back. He freezes and very obviously tries to subtly see if Derek is still in the room. When he spots the werewolf waiting a few feet away, he winces.

“So...I guess we’ve already established what happened last night,” Stiles says, grimacing heavily.

“Yes. We have,” the Sheriff responds, leveling a look at him. The look quickly softens though as his dad squeezes his shoulder. “Panic attack, huh?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, looking down. Derek can tell Stiles thinks his attack was a sign of weakness, has probably always thought that about them.

The Sheriff doesn’t press any further. Instead, he announces, “Well, I’m glad Derek found you. And that he stayed and made sure you were okay. And that he told me what happened because I know you probably would have tried to keep it from me.”

Stiles shrugs a shoulder and still won’t look at either of them.

The Sheriff understands his son well. He changes the subject. “Well, I’m starving. Who wants breakfast? Derek?”

Stiles' head whips in Derek’s direction. His eyes are wide, but he’s not giving off any signals, merely waiting for a response.

“I think I better go,” Derek says politely. “Thank you tho—“

“Nonsense,” the Sheriff says, rising to his feet. “You saved my kid last night. The least I can do is pay you back with a meal. We’ll bring out the real bacon for Derek, right?”

Stiles glares up at his dad. “You are not getting real bacon, nice try.”

“Darn. Can’t blame a guy for trying,” the Sheriff says and moseys toward the kitchen.

“Yes, I can,” Stiles says, putting his feet under him and following his father. “You try and sometimes you might succeed. I have the whole force watching you, but they still can’t always make sure you don’t buy something fried.”

The teen stops in the doorway and turns back to Derek.

“You coming?”

He’s awake and eager and alive and Derek finds himself walking toward him without making the conscious decision to do so. Maybe he’s just trying to make sure Stiles is really all right.

That’s not a terrible thing to do. Right?

But, even as he sits down at the table and the Sheriff amicably asks him if he drinks coffee, he knows the answer is that everything Derek does is terrible.

Because Derek is a terrible person.

 

 

Stiles’ elbow is sore, which he discovers in a painful fashion when he is reaching up for the plates. He imagines he has a bruise there and probably matching ones on his knees. He’s lucky that’s all he has left over from last night.

Well. That and about a boatful of bitterness.

He thinks of his _best friend_ and his mind clouds with thunder and darkness and Stiles has but only the desire to strike him down with a bolt of lightning like some vengeful god.

He’s not sure he can even look at him again, much less speak to him.

But, he knows that time will pass and he’ll forgive him, because he always does. Scott is his _best friend_ and in spite of the more recent imbalance in their relationship, Stiles knows he can’t leave Scott. Even after last night. Last night. If it hadn’t been for Derek...

Stiles glances over at Derek sitting at the table with his father and chatting about basketball scores. Stiles didn’t even know Derek watched basketball. The man doesn’t have a TV. It’s strange how natural it looks to have them both sitting there. Terrifying is maybe the actual word Stiles was going for. Derek Hale: multiple arrests (no convictions!), scary freaking werewolf, super powerful Alpha, rage-issues-much?, needs to learn to use his words, brooding bad boy complete with cool car and leather jacket accessory set—sitting at the kitchen table and looking completely normal. And entirely like he belongs there.

Stiles almost doesn’t understand it. But, when he thinks again, he does. Derek had had a big family. A scene like this had been the norm in his life once upon a time. Stiles can’t tell if it’s all just an act now to keep Stiles’ Sheriff-father’s suspicions at bay, or if he really has just slipped back into something this normal so easily.

Derek catches Stiles’ eye as he’s lifting his coffee mug to his mouth and the look there is still as guarded as ever. But, Stiles thinks the crinkled corners of his eyes might be genuine. He wonders if Derek would start coming over for breakfast with him and his dad once a week. If that’s all it takes to make Derek Hale seem less like the world had stepped on him yet again, then Stiles will be happy to oblige.

Stiles sets the plates down on the table and says, “Eat up!” before taking his own seat. He’s made an egg white omelet for the Sheriff, while he and Derek’s omelets comprise of mainly yolks. The Sheriff’s is filled with mushrooms and spinach and a pinch of cheese. Derek’s has chopped ham in it. There’s orange juice, which Stiles cannot get the Sheriff to trade his coffee for. There’s also toast, wheat of course, and low-fat margarine in lieu of butter, as well as no-sugar-added strawberry jam.

It’s nice.

Derek doesn’t have decent meals very often anymore and he certainly hasn’t had a home-cooked one in a long time. Longer than he cares to think about.

Stiles is glowing when he talks to his dad about why the spinach in his omelet is good for him and no, he can’t have any ham, eggs have plenty of protein. Derek finds himself watching him. He thinks the teen’s okay now. Or at least he would if he were just looking at him. But, he can smell him, too. And he can smell the bitterness coming off him, the scent heavy on his tongue. He’s still mad. Understandably. But, he’s still hurt, too, and even his father’s presence hasn’t made that go away. Derek doesn’t know what he could do to make that better.

“Well, I’m heading to bed,” the Sheriff says. “Derek, I’ll walk you to the door.” There’s a clear dismissal there and it’s a subtle way for the Sheriff to let Derek know he doesn’t want him alone with his son again, not that he’s not grateful and all.

“Thank you for the meal. Sheriff. Stiles.”

“Yeah, sure, of course,” Stiles says, standing awkwardly behind his chair and looking every bit like there’s something else he wants to say, but can’t in front of his father.

At the door the Sheriff claps Derek on the shoulder and says sincerely, “Thanks for taking care of my kid. He...Those panic attacks are worse than he likes to admit sometimes. I don’t want to think what would have happened if you hadn’t seen him and stopped.”

Derek nods. “Just trying to do the right thing.”

“We all do.”

The Sheriff watches Derek get in his Camaro and drive away, giving him a friendly enough nod when he glances back at the house.

Stiles is finishing up the dishes, when his father walks back in.

“So. Derek was driving by, huh?”

Stiles turns around, hands still wet. “What?”

“That’s what happened, right? Derek saw you in the vet parking lot?”

“I guess,” Stiles says. “I honestly don’t remember much.” And that’s a lie all around. He remembers every aching second of it.

“Do you remember what caused it?”

Stiles shakes his head, shrugs.

The Sheriff knows that’s a lie, but lets it slide. “Were you there with Scott?”

Stiles barely bites back a less than kind comment about Scott McCall. He says, “Yeah. Aw, crap.”

“What?”

“My Jeep. You’ll have to take me by to get it later. It’s probably still at the vet’s.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll get it later. Where was Scott? When you started having your attack?”

When Stiles doesn’t answer immediately, his dad prods him. “Stiles.”

“He’d already left with Allison.”

The Sheriff gets it, then. “Oh, Stiles...”

“Don’t—just don’t! Okay?” Stiles snaps.

Clearly, his dad’s found the reason Stiles doesn’t want to talk about it. Even if Scott picking Allison over him wasn’t what started the panic attack, it certainly didn’t help it. And it definitely had some lasting effects on the Sheriff’s son.

“Okay,” Sheriff Stilinski says softly. “Do you want me to stay with you?”

Stiles shakes his head. The stubborn set of his lower lip reminds his father of when Stiles had been small and sticking up for himself for getting into a fight over some kids picking on Scott again. Ironic.

“Okay,” the man says and turns away, eyes lingering for one moment more.

Stiles flips back around to the sink and waits until he can hear his father ascend the stairs and shut his bedroom door. Then, he grits his teeth and bites back the tears and slaps his hands down on the soapy water as if it were personally to blame. He furiously finishes the last of the dishes and retreats up to his room.

He shuts the door quietly for his dad’s sake and then kicks out at his bed for lack of anything better to attack. A flash of white catches his attention out of the corner of his eye. He moves to his desk.

Propped up on his laptop is a piece of paper folded in half. He snatches it up and pulls it open.

It says:

_Call me next time. 555-9653_

_Derek_

Stiles is so suddenly shocked, he can’t even be angry anymore. Derek had left him his cell number. And told him to call him the next time...well, the next time his life was in horrible danger is what that came down to really, but...But, he had left it. For Stiles. To use. When he needed to. He was telling Stiles to call _him_ next time he needed someone to be there—instead of Scott.

Stiles grabs his phone and quickly taps out a message to the new number.

_Got your note. Thanks. And for last night, too. I don’t think I actually said it, but thanks._

Stiles sends the message and then stares at the piece of paper some more. When had Derek even snuck back in his room to leave that?

“Huh. Creeper wolf,” Stiles mumbles.

His phone buzzes.

_You’re welcome._

Stiles smiles at the message. Derek may be a complete creeper wolf. But, at least he's one who will answer his damn phone when Stiles needs him to. Stiles feels a simple peace settle over him.

If Stiles calls, Derek will come. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> http://mommymuffin.tumblr.com/


End file.
